Lauraloveskatrina | !link!

“Show me,” Katrina whispered.

By senior year, Laura had stopped writing it. The phrase felt too heavy, too raw. She’d accepted that some loves were meant to stay on the underside of desks—invisible, permanent, but never touched. Katrina had started dating a boy named Mike who played lacrosse and didn’t know how to spell “algebra.”

“I’m sorry.”

Laura laughed too loudly. “It’s a nice name.”

And later, when they drove to the beach for the first time together, Katrina borrowed Laura’s pen and wrote on her own palm: lauraloveskatrina

“What’s that?” Katrina asked once, pointing to the faint letters bleeding into the page.

“Looking for you.” Katrina walked closer. “Mike and I broke up.” “Show me,” Katrina whispered

That was the year of almost. Almost holding hands during a movie. Almost saying it when Katrina fell asleep on her shoulder during a bus ride home from a band competition. Almost, almost, almost.